Helen Fields - Perfect Kill

‘You were a potential witness. My lawyer told me not to see you under any circumstances.’

‘Luc, I was your best friend. You didn’t rape that woman any more than I did, and I knew it. You just never gave me a chance to say those words to you,’ Jean-Paul shouted.

‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I should have been more thoughtful when I was facing the prospect of spending fifteen years behind bars, then living with the label of sex offender and doing casual labour because my career had been stolen from me. It was a lot to deal with,’ Callanach replied quietly.

‘Even now you can’t see it from anyone’s perspective but your own, can you?’

Callanach stared at him, arms folded, one side of his mouth twisted up, half smile, half grimace. ‘Well, now you’ve said everything you wanted to. I’ve heard your side of the story. And I’m not superhuman, I’m just doing my job. As for women paying me attention, I think you’re a lot more interested in that than I am. Maybe you need to figure out why that is. You always did hate the way women reacted to me. At least you’re finally being honest about it. But I’m here to work, and that’s all. I want to find Malcolm Reilly’s killer, close down this human trafficking case and go home. No drama, no conflict, no amateur psychotherapy, and – in the unlikely event that anyone does ask if I’m single and available – the answer is no. I’m committed elsewhere. Now, I’m pretty sure we were headed towards a crime scene, so let’s go.’

Detective Chief Inspector Ava Turner’s first thought of the morning was that sex was simpler at the anticipatory stage than in the ramifications phase. Staring at the shoulders of the man asleep next to her, her second was to wonder how he ever found shirts to fit. He awoke, stretched, sighed heavily and ran one hand through his long hair before rolling over to greet her with a wide smile.

‘Tell me it isn’t time to get up yet,’ he said. ‘I need at least another twelve hours with you before I’m prepared to let you out of bed.’

‘That’s nice,’ she said, sitting up and wrapping his discarded shirt around herself until she located something more appropriate. ‘But I have to get to the station and I’m no good with early morning company, so if you could …’

‘Get out?’ DI Pax Graham asked. ‘Ava, we both knew this was going to be complicated when we came back here last night, so let’s go easy on one another. I’ve got no intention of making this difficult for you at work. I’m not the enemy. Far from it. All I want is to make this happen between us, on whatever terms you can deal with.’ He reached out and took her fingers in his hand, stroking her palm gently with his thumb.

Fuck, Ava thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck, and one more for good luck. She was such an idiot. Sleeping with an officer under her command was stupid enough, but choosing one who seemed to genuinely care for her was a recipe for disaster. And that was before she pulled back the psychological curtain to take a look at her motivation.

‘This was a mistake,’ Ava said, voice soft, face as neutral as she could make it. ‘My mistake, not yours. I’m really sorry. It was a combination of having some downtime and too much beer – not that I needed to be drunk to sleep with you. I’ve been out of a relationship a long time, and I suppose I got lonely.’

That wasn’t the truth and she knew it, but the lie was easier.

‘You know, you’re allowed to be lonely.’ He sat up, showing off the sort of chest an MMA fighter would be proud of, and leaned over to kiss her bare shoulder. ‘Being a detective chief inspector doesn’t mean your feelings have to get shoved into some lesser status. Also, if I leave now I won’t be able to impress you with my bacon sandwiches.’

‘Could I maybe take a raincheck on the bacon?’ Ava asked. ‘Not that it doesn’t sound good …’ Her mobile ringtone burst through the excuse session. She grabbed it and stood, pulling the shirt fully closed, hating her self-consciousness in the cold light of day. Opening a drawer with her free hand she rummaged for underwear and socks as she answered. ‘Turner.’

‘Ma’am,’ Detective Sergeant Tripp said. ‘We’ve got a dead body, single gunshot wound to the head. Deceased is a Caucasian male believed to be in his sixties.’

‘Where?’ Ava asked, perching on the edge of her bed to pull on knickers, as she motioned at Graham to keep quiet.

‘Dumbryden Gardens, Wester Hailes. The crime scene examiner’s already there. The deputy pathologist’s on his way, as Dr Lambert is away on a lecture tour this month. Uniforms have sealed off the roads locally. Can you come, only I’ve tried DI Graham, but it’s his day off and he’s not answering his phone?’

Ava walked around the bed, picked up Graham’s jeans, reached in the pocket for his mobile and tossed it onto the bed next to him.

‘Try his mobile again. He was probably sleeping. It’s only …’ She checked the bedside clock. ‘God, I overslept, how is it eight thirty? I’ll be with you in half an hour. Ask DI Graham to meet me there and keep the scene secure. It’s not the easiest of patches on a good day.’ She ended the call. ‘Your phone was off. Tripp’s about to call you. We need to go in separate cars.’

‘Can you drop me back to mine on the way?’ Graham asked, standing up and giving Ava the benefit of all six foot four of him stark naked. She looked away, wondering what would be a good alternative career for when she got fired from the Major Investigation Team.

Graham’s mobile rang. Ava’s followed suit. She walked into the bathroom to avoid anyone overhearing their voices on their respective calls.

‘No, it’s fine. I’ve got no plans so I’ll be there,’ Graham was saying as she pushed the door half shut.

‘This is Turner.’

‘Ava, it’s Luc.’

She opened her mouth to talk, catching sight of herself in the bathroom mirror, socks in one hand, mobile in the other, hair wild, mascara smudged beneath her eyes, skinnier than she’d been for years. It wasn’t a flattering look. She didn’t recommend a diet based solely on stress and insomnia.

‘Can you hear me?’ Callanach asked.

‘Yes … yes I can. Sorry, you caught me at a busy moment.’ A sheen of sweat suddenly glimmered on her forehead.

‘Shall I call back later? This can wait an hour or so. Where are you?’

Ava coughed, and forced some authority into her voice. ‘At home but I’m just on my way to an incident. Go ahead. Tripp’s covering it so I’ve got two minutes.’

‘You’re at home? I thought I heard Pax Graham’s voice before …’ Callanach sounded distant, foreign. But then he was – both things – Ava thought.

‘He stopped to pick me up en route to the scene,’ Ava thought on her feet, feeling sick, hating the ridiculous sense that she’d been caught cheating, ridiculous given that she was single even if things with Luc hadn’t been properly resolved. ‘It’s a shooting so all hands on deck. MIT went out for drinks last night and I left my car at the station. Is there an update on the trafficking case from your end?’ she asked, moving the conversation onto safer ground, wishing for the tenth time in as many minutes that she’d stuck to beer and not chased it with shots, and that she’d equally stuck to dull celibacy instead of trying to distract herself from the memory of the near miss with Luc by filling her bed with a convenient warm body. She’d broken her self-imposed rules pretty impressively. Drinking with her team was supposed to be limited to one quick glass, then head for the exit.